New Perspective
by HiddlesbatchedSherlollian
Summary: Sherlolly prompt, What happens post s3 when he goes to visit Molly. Kinda fluffy, a bit of blowing up mentioned, OOC Sherlock in parts.
1. The One Who Matters The Most

Tumblr prompt again! "Could you do one Set at the end of series 3 when he finds out about Moriarty then goes to Molly? ?" Your wish, my dear, is my pleasure to fulfil.

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Sherlock's heart beat a little faster, nervousness stealing through his body as he fiddled with his phone whilst waiting for Mycroft's car to arrive. Since his years away, he had become nervous out in the open, a tremor having developed in his right hand and though he would never admit it to anyone, he felt true fear when he was as exposed as he was now.

Of course, it was an entirely rational fear. When one is hunting down members of a highly skilled network of extremely competent assassins, spies and murderers, one wrong move could cost you your life. He had come extremely close in Kabul, staying in a small hostel for two evenings had let those he was tracking know he was there, and had given them time to plant several pipe bombs in his small room.

Eleven innocents had died.

He clenched his fists, refusing to acknowledge any feelings he had. They had been collateral damage, as Mycroft had said, and the fact that they had lives, families and were going to be missed meant nothing. He _could not allow _himself to feel.

Molly's reproachful face came to mind, her glossy brown hair pulled loosely into a ponytail behind her head and her mouth pinched in a disapproving frown.

_They were loved, Sherlock. _

_I know, Molly. I'm sorry they died, and that it's my fault._

She had been coming to him in his mind palace when he needed her for months, even before she had slapped him for "returning" to the drug life, offering him sweetness and support, occasionally giving insight from a pathological viewpoint which Sherlock ordinarily wouldn't have considered.

He liked having her there.

She helped him through the night mares and the guilt. Made him accept responsibility, but without being cruel about it, much like she was in life. She was his exact opposite and he appreciated that about her.

Finally, the car arrived, pulling slowly to a stop beside the curb of the pavement. Once inside, checking the driver wasn't armed or in any way not affiliated with his brother, he allowed himself to relax slightly.

He still had to work out what he was going to say to her. Sentiment truly was not his forte.

However, he was worried about her. The Moriarty thing had almost destroyed her last time, and only once he was back and Jim confidently dead did she become more outgoing and confident, not taking any of his insults any more.

Calling her forth again, he studied her in his mind, taking note of the gained weight – a pound and a half – the style of her hair, how it had gone from vaguely childlike, messy and clumsy even when she really tried, to confident and.. smooth. He caught himself wondering what her hair would feel like, if it would be a soft as it looked.

He tried to imagine how she would look at the news of Jim's return. He thought she'd cry, or retreat into herself, her eyes glazed and horrified. He hoped she wasn't too bad. He hoped to whatever deities existed – if any – that she would accept his proposition.

He gazed absently out of the window, watching London fly by, going in the opposite direction to what he had expected. Molly's flat was near Bart's, wasn't it?

"We're going the wrong way. Why are we going in the direction of the docks?"

"It was Mr Holmes' request that you be brought to Miss Hooper, and she 'appens to be at the docks. Alright?"

"…It's Doctor Hooper…" He grumbled to himself, insulting the middle aged alcoholic with marriage problems, three cats and a heart defect under his breath.

He wanted to see her. Not desperately, but as close to desperation a Holmes ever came. He needed her to tell him that he wasn't doing the wrong thing, that he wasn't a monster for killing Magnussen.

He hated the feeling, an adrenaline high and a feeling of euphoric despair, like all the good in him had been forcefully ejected as he had pulled that trigger. Leaving him empty and numb.

Until he had been told that he was going to stay here. His first thought had been of her, then of John and Mary and little girl Watson, then of Moriarty.

He loathed the man even more now he knew first hand the sick pleasure of taking another's life. He could not allow him to ruin Molly any further.

He leaned his head against the headrest wearily, wishing for more time. He had no idea what to say to her. He never knew what to say to her, really, he just relied on blind panicked instinct, which always ended in insulting her.

_I'm sorry Molly, there was nothing else I could do. What do you need? _

That sounded completely unlike the man she knew him as.

_Molly, I need you to tell me what I can do. I will catch him._

Still unlike him.

_I need your help._

That would have to do. Short, concise, Sherlock all over. And he hadn't insulted her.

The car shuddered suddenly, warehouses flashing past him in a dark barely noticed blur. He had to do this right, or not at all.

Not doing it wasn't even an option.

He tried once more.

_Molly, I think it would be prudent for both your personal safety and my peace of mind, not to mention to deter John from nagging me, for you to come and live in Baker Street with me for the foreseeable future._

Perfect.

The car rolled to a stop outside a clean, slightly sea battered shipping container, the door slightly open and a thin stream of light cut into the darkness. Breathing deeply, he threw to car door open and made his way swiftly over to the glimmer of light, pausing in the entranceway to take in the sight before him.

Molly stood, staring at him, eyes slightly red, cheeks pinched, an old warm jumper hanging off one shoulder, comfy jeans with a tear in the knee and fluffy socks making her look worn but homely. Mycroft stood behind her, leaning on his faithful old umbrella, a scathing look marring his features.

"I'm glad to see you made it here alright, brother mine. Miss-"

"Doctor Hooper." Sherlock practically growled at his brother.

"Yes. Doctor Hooper was just asking why I had brought her here."

"Sherlock?" Her eyes met his, firm but soft, needing comfort but wanting desperately not to need it.

"MollyIthinkitwouldbeprudentforbothyourpersonalsafetyandmypeaceofmind, not to mention to deter John from nagging me, foryouto...come and live in...Baker Street with me for the foreseeable future." He sucked in a deep breath, having garbled his carefully thought out proposition in one breath.

_Well bugger._

She stared at him, confused and hopeful.

"You... want me... to move into Baker Street?"

"Temporarily, of course. Just until Mycroft and I have managed to get to the bottom of this Moriar...of this mess." He attempted a smile, which he knew was forced and fake looking, but needing to at least try, for her.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

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Okay, so I think I have another chapter in me if you guys want one, though I am also quite happy to leave it there. Thanks for reading!


	2. What A Difference A Finger Makes

Wow, thank you guys for your wonderful reviews and pleas for more (I joke, I know you guys aren't that desperate!) so I hope I do you justice.

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She wasn't sure she liked the flat.

Small, messy and completely unlike her own, though at least he had allowed Toby to come with her. She had been firm in that, and kept on the lookout for odd body parts to bring home - back - for him, to ensure nothing... untoward would happen to her beloved cat.

Who seemed to prefer Sherlock's company to hers anyway.

Often she would arrive ho-back to find Sherlock on his back on the sofa (she didn't even have a seat) with Toby curled contentedly on his chest, purring ever so quietly. Then Sherlock would tell her to shut up, she was distracting him whilst raising one of those long, pale white hands to gently caress Toby's head.

She wasn't jealous. Of course not.

Tonight however, neither he, nor her cat were to be found. She called out to both of them, placing the little bag of six severed fingers on the kitchen table alongside an ear and two toes, dumped her bag on her bed (which she assumed was John's old room, though she had thought John slept upstairs. Sherlock would _never_ give up his room for anyone, surely...?) and sprawled out on the sofa.

It was like lying on a cloud. No wonder Sherlock spent ninety percent of his time on it.

Utterly exhausted from twelve autopsies - the lab technician hadn't showed up again, and the other pathologist was on maternity leave, leaving her to do all the work, both the dissections and the paperwork - she closed her eyes temporarily, hoping to catch just a few minutes rest before Sherlock came back and caught her on _his _sofa.

He caught her sleeping on his sofa.

Stealing almost silently up the stairs, Toby hot on his heels, he pushed the door open softly.

Worried when she hadn't been home by six, and then half six, and then seven had come and gone, he had gone to Barts' to look for her, only to be told she had left five minutes before he got there.

He felt a soft, sappy smile steal across his features and for once allowed it. She was asleep, and the cat wouldn't tell her. He noted the bag of treats she had brought home for him sitting on the table and smiled wider, dropping as he took note of the two smaller fingers in the bag. Children's fingers.

He wouldn't use them.

How could he?

He had seen children dying when he was away, and not bat en eyelid.

But the building that blew up, that he had meant to be inside, had had children in it.

Young children, babies, he had heard them at night, crying and laughing, and he was directly responsible for their deaths.

So no.

He would not use those children's fingers.

He sauntered over to the table, taking the other four out, as well as the ear and toes, and left the little ones in the bag. Sitting down, he tried to study the fingers, _male, three different sources, one smoker - forty a day - one ex smoker and one never touched the things, _but out of the corner of his eye the little ones in the clear plastic bag reproached him. Asked him why the little girl had to die.

Why any child had to die.

He let out a frustrated roar and pushed angrily out of the chair, slamming his fists against the table.

"**I don't know why you had to die. If I could change it, I would but I can't, and I. Am. Sorry. **To all of you..." He leant his head wearily against the table, two small, insignificant tears escaping and trickling slowly down his face.

A small, delicate hand touched gently against his back, rubbing softly in small soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

"It's alright, you know. You solve their murders, not their lives. I'm sure if they knew _you_ were going to be the one to solve their deaths, and _save others' lives _they would not blame you for not saving theirs. Sherlock, you're not invincible!" She moved her hands round to his face, titling it to look at him properly.

His eyes, though red, shone with all the colours of the midnight sky, ever changing blues, greens and golds.

Her breath caught as she stared, transfixed, into the depths of his eyes, emotion laid bare to her, guilt, pain and remorse as well as fear, weariness and childlike innocence. An innocence that seemed to be fading with each passing day, as he finally began to accept that each body was a real, living human being, not just a case for him to solve.

He was changing, and it scared her.

Clearly, it scared him too.

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his, wrapping her arms around him comfortingly.

"I just, I suddenly _feel_. I hate it. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, but I don't lose. I don't want to be on the losing side, I win, Molly! I always win! And now I'm losing control, I look at those innocent children's fingers and wonder what their lives would have been, who killed them, but from an emotional perspective, not a scientific one. I look at those fingers and think "was it premeditated? Did she know her killer? Was it murder or a hit and run?" Why must life be so... pointless? We all die, and there is nthing to stop it, so why bother? _What is the point, Molly?"_

He searched her eyes desperately, as though her face held the answers to life and death and a million and other things as incomprehensible to her as the inner workings of his beautiful mind.

One thing she knew, however, was that she would not let him down.

"Sentiment is the reason why we bother, Sherlock. We care for people, and love people, and animals, and sometimes _things_ because they make us feel needed. We are selfish and desperate and need to be needed by someone, and having that person who needs you, and you need back, that is what life is for. Don't throw it away. Your life has touched so many, and we need you, so, so much, especially now that we have known what it's like without you here. You know I love you, Sherlock, I need you, and John needs you, and little baby Watson when she arrives will need you, I mean who will look after us if you're not there?"

She forced him to meet her eyes again.

"We _need_ you. Not anyone else, _you_. I will not let you waste your beautiful gifts bestowed upon you to be wasted. You are luckier than most, Sherlock Holmes, you just need to see it."

She stood and looked at him softly as he sat, head bowed, tears dripping noiselessly to the worn floor beneath him.

"..You... Really love me? Not just a silly sentimental crush, like at the start of our... Acquaintance?" His head stayed bowed, though his voice seemed oddly strained.

"Yes. And I always will, for what it's worth." She turned silently and left, grabbing her coat quickly and texting John as she went down the stairs, leaving Sherlock curled into himself on a kitchen chair and a small almost hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

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So do you want me to keep writing and try and make Sherlock get to the bottom of this little Moriarty thing? I don't mind either way :)


	3. The Baring Of A Long Denied Soul

So I got a review saying that Sherlock was very OOC in the last chapter. I can almost see where you're coming from, "guest", since when does Sherlock ever cry? Oh yes. At the end of S3. We don't know what he went through when he was away, and for the purposes of this little story, he was almost blown up, and a number of children (and adults) died directly because of him. Thanks to S3, we see more emotion from him, unlike in the other two seasons, so I'm taking this as an excuse to manipulate him slightly to be a little more human than even in S3, though his slamming away from the table? That was in character. He does that in both the two earlier seasons, and randomly shouts, and gets frustrated.

Hope that's clarified his OOC-ness. Besides! It's Sherlolly! He's always going to be a little OOC.

Rant over. Enjoy this next chapter :)

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Stopping outside of 221 Baker Street, Molly brushed her hand sharply across her cheeks, swiping the tears gathered there away.

She had to stop him doing this to himself.

She'd seen the frantic nervousness in his step every time they stepped out into the open, the subtle flinching at unexpected noises or the sound of a child's laughter cut short.

She'd seen pain in his eyes when John wasn't observing, though he tried to hide it, even from her.

He was a stubborn fool and she adored him for it.

And she had told him.

_Fool!_

The demon that lived in her head, that had constantly put her down all her life, raised its ugly little head, chastising her for her idiocy.

_What did you expect, Molly-Molly-Dreamer? Your precious Sher-lock to say he lo-ves you? Neither of you know what love means, stupid girl._

She shook her head vehemently, thrusting the irritating voice from her mind.

All her life she had let it rule her, making her back down when all she had wanted was to have a voice.

She refused to return to the scared teenager she had been stuck as for so long.

She glanced up at the window, a faint light illuminating the street surrounding her. Nothing stirred within the flat.

Sighing, she pulled her coat more firmly around herself, checking her phone for messages.

John hadn't replied yet.

She hated leaving him, especially when he was in the state he was in, but she hadn't known what to do. She had half an idea about getting John, or Mycroft, someone who knew him better... But who knew him better than her? John knew less about what he had gone through in his time away than she did, and Mycroft, though he _knew_, he didn't empathise. _Sentiment is a chemical defect. Caring is not an advantage._

Mycroft was a dick bag, and she could not trust him to take care of Sherlock.

She was the girl who counted. Maybe not "The Woman", or his "Live in Doctor", but she _was_ his Pathologist.

She mattered to him, and by leaving him now, she might have ruined that.

Turning back to face the imposing black door, with the wonky knocker that Mycroft insisted upon straightening, she breathed a deep, steadying breath, and reached for the door handle, pulling back her had as the door flew open.

"Sherlock...?"

His eyes were glazed, panicky, flitting around restlessly as he searched for something unseen.

"Children... Get out OF MY **HEAD!**" He roared down the street, pulling frantically at his hair as he pushed into her.

"Sherlock! Focus! There's no-one there, it's all in your head. Please, calm... Calm down..." She pulled his head to her chest, talking to him softly, running one of her hands through his hair and rubbing his back with the other.

"Please, Sherlock, come back inside..."

"Can't..." His voice, usually so deep and authoritative, was soft, childlike, muffled though it was by her coat.

"Shhhh... Sherlock, it's alright... It's just, we're so.. exposed out here...what... What if Moriarty finds out where I am? Please... And people will talk, look how they were with you and John!" She attempted a smile as she felt him chuckle slightly.

"Okay."

She heaved a sigh of relief, drawing his face out of her coat and taking firm hold of his hand, pulling him ever so gently up the stairs to their flat.

"I'm sorry for leaving you. I didn't.. I just didn't know what to _do_ for the best. I thought I should get John-"

"No. Can't let John see me like this. He wouldn't understand.." She studied his face, taking in the desperation, fear and longing there.

"You want this to end? Can't you.. Compartmentalise it? Put the memory of the..."

"Little girl."

"Of the little girl in a room, and lock it?"

His already deathly pale face grew paler.

"No, no. They were, they were locked in the building. I would have been, but I was late, so they set the building on fire, with this little girl still inside, crying for her mother. Her mother was outside, too. I listened to her scream from the heat, and then the silence. Like nothing else. They set the building on fire, and then, as it seemed to be going out, as the survivors were getting hopeful that the might not die, lungs weakened by the smoke and their _screams_, they blew the bloody building up.

"It was as though Death was a physical thing that had snatched their voices, leaving nothing but despair and misery behind.

"Molly, it crushed us, all of us. God knows how that little girl's mother feels. If a self-confessed sociopath feels such intense emotions, what must she be going through?"

Molly sat, frozen in horror, tears welling in her eyes as he physically fell apart in front of her.

"Oh, my god, Sherlock..." She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his broad shoulders.

"Now you know why I can't be alone, not any more. Silence... Silence brings that little girl's death back, her laughter, and her screams and then the crushing, torturous silence."

She kissed his cheeks, uncaring of her tears and his mingling, promising to never leave him alone again.

Curling into him, she listened to his voice gradually become smoother, his breathing revert back to a regular rhythm, listening to him blurt out random facts from his mind palace, occasionally adding some interesting cases from her time as Pathologist at Barts from before she had met him.

She fell asleep on his lap, Toby curled into her.

She woke up within the warm cocoon of his arms in the room she had been sleeping in - alone - for the past few weeks.

"I knew it was his room..." Mumbling to herself, she turned to face him, smoothing her fingers over his high, prominent cheekbones and marvelling over the difference between his waking form and the innocent, sweet expression his sleeping form took.

He mumbled something indiscernible, shifting slightly as he drew her closer in his sleep.

He looked so vulnerable.

She treasured the fact that he felt comfortable enough with her to allow her to see him so exposed.

She loved him. The realisation that is was real, true, _This man is the one for me, and always will be_ love hit her suddenly, making her want to both cry and laugh. Even though she _knew _he didn't, and wouldn't ever feel the same, she knew now that she loved _him_, not what he stood for, or his looks, or his intellect.

She loved him, and nothing could change that.

She sighed. _Crap._

However, she also knew that she could always uphold her promise.

She would never leave him.

She _couldn't._

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Thanks for reading! Again! I actually don't have a concrete plot in mind for this, it's just a fantastic distraction from my very important history coursework, and i like writing about Sherlock and Molly sleeping together without, you know, _sleeping together. _;)


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